Nature had thrown up upon her lip and cheek two big blonde moles that procured to her physiognomy, somehow or other, an unusual degree of expression. “My husband has been waiting to hear from you,” she said, “as agent to this _Miss Sin——_, the new star with the naughty name, and from all I could make out I understand it would be likely to be a _Double Engagement._” “This is Miss Sinquier,” Mrs. Sixsmith exclaimed. Miss Sinquier blinked. “Have you done it much?” she asked. “Often.” “Where?” “Everywhere.” “For example?” “I may say I’ve played Pauline and Portia and Puck....” “Mother-to-Juliet I fear’s the best I’ve to offer.” Mrs. Smee consulted enigmatically the nearest mole in reach of her tongue. “Were I to play her in ‘good’ preservation,” she inquired, “I suppose there’d be no objection?” “Why, none!” “Just a girlish touch....” “Mrs. Smee defies time,” Mrs. Sixsmith remarked. “My dear, I once was thought to be a very pretty woman.... All I can do now is to urge my remains.” Miss Sinquier raised a forefinger. Voices shivering in altercation issued loudly from a private dressing-room next door. “What’s up?” “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” the wardrobe-mistress entering said. “Sir Maurice and Mr. Fisher are passing sharp words with a couple of pitchforks.” “What!” “The ‘Farm-players’ sent them over from the Bolivar for their Pig-sty scene—and now poor Mr. Mary, _Sir M’riss_, and Mr. Fisher are fighting it out, and Mrs. Mary, _her ladyship_, has joined the struggle.” “Murder!” called a voice. “Glory be to God.” Mrs. Sixsmith rolled her eyes. “Da!” she gasped, as Lady Mary, a trifle dazed but decked in smiles, came bustling in. “Oh, Men! Men! Men!” she exclaimed, going off into a hearty laugh. “Rough, angelic brutes...!” She was radiant. She had a gown of shot brocade, a high lace ruff and a silver girdle of old German work, that had an ivory missal falling from it. “Quarrelsome, quarrelling kings,” she stuttered, drifting towards a toilet-table—the very one before which Miss Sinquier was making her face. On all sides from every lip rose up a chorus of congratulations. “Viva, Lady Mary!” Touched, responsive, with a gesture springing immediately from the heart, the consummate Victorian extended impulsive happy hands. “God bless you, dears,” she said. “Three cheers for Lady Mary!” The illustrious woman quashed a tear. “Am I white behind?” she asked. “Allow me, milady,” the wardrobe-mistress wheezed. “I fancy I heard a rip...!” “There must have been quite a scrimmage.” From the orchestra, a melodious throb-thrum-throb told a “curtain.” “Lady Mary—_you_, Mum,” a call-boy chirped. “Me?” “Five minutes.” Lady Mary showed distress. “For goodness sake, my dear,” she addressed Miss Sinquier, “do leave yourself alone. I want the glass.” But Miss Sinquier seemed engrossed. At her elbow a slip of a “Joy-baby” was holding forth with animation to Mrs. Sixsmith and Mrs. Smee.